The Stupid and the Proud
by Tomoe2
Summary: London, 1888 The British Empire reels as the Ripper takes life after life in Whitechapel. While the H Division of the Yard tries its best to find the culprit, the Men of Letters call upon Lord Shanthutt's sons Daniel (Dean) and Samuel (Sam) to help solve the crime for Queen and Country.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Whitechapel**

**August 31, 1888**

Edmund Reid sat alone at his desk in semi-darkness. The gas lamps burnt low and were it not for a tallow candle he'd lit up, he wouldn't have seen much. Not that it made things that much better. The damned thing sputtered and smoked to high heavens. He scratched his forehead with his ink stained fingers, leaving a dark smudge above his eyebrow. He sat up straight and reorganised the notes in front of him. In the distance, he heard the muffled chatter of the sergeant on desk duty conversing with one of the beat constables who had just finished his round. In hope of a distraction, he tried to decipher what they were talking about but to no avail. In the depths of the precinct jail, some poor soul howled. Reid wished he could have screamed, too.

Despite what Dew said, and no matter how many times he reviewed the files, he couldn't find any plausible connection between the two murders. Yet the man was adamant and Abberline had personally asked him to humour him. There had been something odd in the older inspector's tone, an uncharacteristic feverishness barely concealed under his usual joviality. And so Reid sat here, poring over the same information, over and over, trying to find the one small detail that would tie everything together. There were four months between Smith and Tabram and the former had died of the consequences of her attacks, not from the attack itself. Tabram has been stabbed 39 times. Smith not even once… The only connection here was that they were both prostitutes, but one would have been hard pressed to find a woman in Whitechapel who wasn't. And who could blame them?

He leaned back in his chair and cracked his stiff neck. He pulled out his pocket watch. 3:50am. There had been a time when Emily would have been furious at him for coming in passed 9pm but now she was probably grateful. If he was completely honest, he had been avoiding her, too. These murders were the perfect excuse but to be fair, at this point even he was fed up with this exercise in futility. He had some questions for Jackson but he knew he wouldn't get an answer before he found the man slumped over in an alley and managed to wake him up from his drunken stupor. Reid often found himself envying the American surgeon; whatever was eating at him, he'd found a way to numb it.

The inspector arranged his papers, blew his candle out and got up. Despite the late summer heat, he slid on his sack coat, debating whether he should call a hansom or just walk. He fished for coins in his pockets and finding but a few, opted for the latter. He grabbed his bowler hat from the hook on the wall, turned off the gas and walked to the front desk where Sgt. Carter, now alone, was busy reading the previous day's paper.

"Carter," said Reid with a small nod.

The man nodded back at him in recognition but his eyes barely left the broadsheet. The inspector surmised that the newspaper actually hid a penny dreadful. He was about to say something when the doors of the precinct flew open and Constable Hobbs stumbled in.

"Mr. Reid. Mr. Reid. Oh! Thank God you're still here!" He exclaimed.

The young man doubled over, panting.

"What is it, Hobbs? Speak!"

The constable straightened himself.

"There's been another one, Sir."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Whitechapel**

**September 4, 1888**

The entire precinct held its breath as Inspector First-Class Abberline bellowed in Chief Inspector Dew's office. At first, they'd pretended to be working, each one of them trying desperately to catch a few words of the conversation, but once Abberline had started yelling, the entire place had come to a stand still. Even the prisoners downstairs had grown quiet.

"I don't give a rat's arse about whose territory this is! You know damn well there is a connection! I need this body!"

"Seems like Dew still won't use his connections to sway Chief Commissioner Warren," commented Sergeant Drake, offering Reid a cigarette.

The inspector accepted it and let the other man light it up. He puffed on it a few times and blew out smoke.

"Dew doesn't know Sir Warren. He's barely ever been in the same room as him."

Drake gave Reid a look.

"You alright, Mr. Reid. Not like you to talk ill like this."

The inspector turned to his friend and gave him a tired smile.

"I'm not talking ill of Dew, Bennet. I'm mainly stating the truth. Abberline knows it, too. He's simply trying to scare our dear Chief Inspector."

The door of the office slammed, making the windows rattle

"Well, doesn't seem to be working very well to me," the sergeant said, gesturing towards the entrance where Abberline had emerged.

The older man was slightly disheveled and red in the face.

"Reid!" He barked.

The man stood up.

"I want you and Jackson at J precinct in two hours. I will get this body if this is the last thing I do."

"Yes, sir."

Abberline turned heels and stepped outside. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Reid massaged his temples. He was getting a headache.

"Should I look in the usual spots?" asked Drake, stubbing his cigarette.

"Please. Take Hobbs with you. He likes the boy more than he does you."

Drake laughed.

**Piccadilly Circus**

The carriage turned off Piccadilly square and entered the quiet street that lead to the Ogbourne Club. Dean pulled at his collar.

'Stop it, Dean," said Samuel without lifting his eyes from his book.

"I don't get English fashion. How am I supposed to breathe?" he complained.

The younger man sighed and closed his book. He looked up at his brother.

"Will you stop? Your collar is getting all limp. Here"

He stretched out his hands and arranged Dean's shirt.

"Why are we even here?" he complained. "I'm missing out on a great hunt!"

"There will be more hunts. You know we need to do this. Unless you've found a way to make money that doesn't involve grifting and doing time?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Before Dean could respond, the carriage came to a halt.

"Now let me do the talking. We don't want a repeat of last year."

Dean sat back in his seat, sulking. Their father had almost disowned him last year after finding out that he had blown a big part of Samuel's school funds on shady investments. He had made the money back, of course, but by then, it had been too late and his little brother had had to resort to a loan to pay his tuition. Not his proudest moment.

The driver opened the cab and they stepped out. Dean looked up before putting on his top hat. The sky was as grey as ever and even this far from the slums, the place stank. He hated London.

They climbed the stone stairs to the door of the club. A man in crisp black livery with gold trimmings opened the door for them and bowed. They stepped in, the door closing soundlessly behind them. Dean felt his feet sink in the plush patterned burgundy carpet. He looked up at the dark caisson ceiling. Despite the dimness, he could clearly see the unicursal hexagrams embossed in the wood. The wainscotting was almost black, and the wallpaper, although patterned, appeared to be of an even dark wine red. He shivered.

"This place is as creepy as always," he muttered.

"Good day, gentlemen," said a disembodied voice.

The two men jumped, startled.

As if he had just materialised out of thin air, an old man in a black and gold livery stood behind a lectern so dark it had previously blended with the rest of the entrance's wood paneling.

Samuel took off his hat.

"Good day, Jefferson."

_How does he remember all their names?_ Wondered Dean.

"I believe Lord Shanthutt is expecting us?"

The old man pulled out a monocle from his breast pocket and looked at the ledger on the lectern. Dean wondered how he could see anything in this darkness.

"Your names, gentlemen?"

"Samuel Edwin Carlton Shanthutt."

"Dean Winchester."

The man in the livery looked up from his book.

"I apologised, sir. I have no one under the name… Windchesser."

"It's Winchest…" started Dean.

Samuel interrupted, pushing his brother out of the way.

"Please forgive my brother. I'm afraid the crossing has taken a toll on him. His name his Daniel Timothy Meriwether Shanthutt."

The old man gave Dean an odd glance before looking back down at this ledger.

Once again, seemingly out of nowhere, two men appeared to take their hats and gloves. Dean only handed out one glove; he couldn't find the other one. Samuel shook his head. He shrugged.

"This way, if you please," said Jefferson.

The man lead them up the stairs at the end of a long corridor decorated in the same fashion as the entrance. Although windows pierced the thick stone walls at regular intervals, the dark wood and hangings seemed to suck in all the light, leaving the place gloomy. They stopped in front of an ornate wooden door. The old man knocked softly and waited.

"His lordship will now see you," he said, leaving Dean wondering how this whole thing worked. He hadn't heard anything.

Jefferson opened the door and stepped out of the way to let them in. The room was very different from the rest of the building. The walls were white and the wainscotting a rich dark brown. The floor was completely covered by a plush oriental rug. The molding had been painted in bright blues and pinks. Dark, ornate, and somewhat gaudy furniture completed a scene that wouldn't have been out of place in the British Raj.

"Still dreaming of India, father?" remarked Dean.

"Still as rude as always, Daniel," came his father's reply.

"It's Dean," replied the man, defiantly.

John Merriwether Edwin Shanthutt, Earl of Orford, stepped away from the window he had been standing at and turned to his sons. He was a tall and slim man, yet one could tell he had once been strong. He leaned on a walking stick for support, having been injured in the Sepoy mutiny.

"Look at you Samuel. My word! Have you grown taller?"

John's face warm up with a smile as he took his youngest son's hands in his.

"Not taller, I'm afraid."

"Then I must be the one getting shorter! How are they treating you at Yale? You know I could still pull some strings and have you at Cambridge in no time…"

Dean muted the conversation in his head. He'd heard it a million times. Samuel was the hero, the golden boy, the family's legacy while he… well he was nothing but a disappointment and his father made it a point to remind them whenever they saw each other. He walked to the fireplace. On the marble mantel, he found what he was looking for, a picture of his mother. This had been taken at their Delhi house, in the garden. He still remembered the sweltering heat of these long days. His mother, the heiress to a rich American industrialist, posed in a bright white gown and an umbrella under a royal poinciana. Her hair was up in a complex do and she smiled a mysterious smile. He remembered that had angered his father. It wasn't proper.

"Daniel!"

Dean jumped and turned around to face his father.

"Have you heard anything of what I've just said to you?"

He smiled apologetically.

"No?"

His father's brow furrowed and he tutted. Dean's shoulders slumped. He braced for the incoming berating. To his surprise, his father just sat down at his desk and steepled his hands under his chin. Sam stood still behind John's chair.

"We both know you're here for money."

He sighed.

"I'm tired of your antics, Daniel. But this time, your lifelong disobedience might prove useful.

Dean tilted his head. Samuel wrung his hands.

"If you can do you part in this, I might reconsider your position in the family."

Lord Shanthutt pushed a small black calling card embossed with a gold unicursal hexagram across his desk.

"The Men of Letters need a hunter."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Scotland Yard**

**September 4th, 1888 **

Abberline paced back and forth in front of Sir Warren office, to the quiet but disapproving eye of a young secretary. He had never seen this one before. Either the previous one hadn't been able to handle the Chief Commissioner or he had gotten himself fired. Both would have been understandable; Sir Warren was difficult at the best of times; or so he had heard.

"Would you like some tea, sir?" asked the secretary in a desperate attempt to make the inspector sit down.

Abberline stopped in his tracks and glared.

"This is no time for tea, boy. People are dying."

"Are they, now?" said a voice.

Abberline turned and saluted Sir Warren who stood in the doorway of his office, the door ajar.

"Sir, pardon the intrusion, I have urgent matters to discuss."

The other man looked left and right.

"You're Inspector First-Class Abberline, correct?"

He nodded, surprised that someone like him should know his name.

"Where is your superior? What's his name again… Dunst… No… Duhrer?"

He carded his fingers through his dark, lush hair.

"Dew, Sir," offered Abberline.

Sir Warren nodded.

"Yes, Dew," he said in a voice that betrayed the fact that he had no idea who Dew was. Abberline put aside that new memory, intending to enjoy it fully later.

"Couldn't make it, Sir. Someone needs to run the precinct."

The Chief Commissioner opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it.

"Well Inspector Abberline you better come in. Your timing couldn't be more perfect. We need to talk. Stuart," he turned to the secretary. "I'm not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Even if the queen drops by for tea. Am I making myself clear?"

Someone guffawed back in the office. The secretary nodded.

"After you," invited Warren.

Abberline stepped into the room and froze when he found himself face to face with the prince of Wales. The door closed behind him and Sir Warren took a seat at his desk.

"Your highness, this is Inspector First-Class Abberline. Inspector Abberline, his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales."

Abberline bowed, his heart pounding in his chest so loudly he feared everyone present could hear it. Emma would never believe this.

"Please, stand up straight, Inspector."

He complied.

"Come now, take a seat," said the future king.

Abberline first sat down then shot back up. He possibly couldn't sit if the prince stood.

The Prince of Wales laughed and put his large hands on the man's shoulder, pushing him back down. To make things less awkward, he sat on the armrest of a fauteuil. The furniture creaked under his weight.

"You are here I'm sure to talk to me about the murder which is under the jurisdiction of J Division," said Sir Warren.

"His highness also seems to believe there is a connection with the previous two murders. As we speak, the body of Mrs Nichols is being released and sent to H Division."

Abberline let out a sigh of relief but the sudden realisation that he might have had to plead his cause in front of royalty still made his head swim for a moment.

"We have one condition, however, Inspector First-Class Abberline."

"Of course!" he responded, too fast for his own taste. "Anything."

The Prince of Wales slid his heavy body from the armrest to the fauteuil proper. He leaned back, pulled a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his sack coat, offered one to Abberline (who refused) and put one in his mouth before lighting it with a golden lighter he grabbed from a side table. He took a long drag.

"Don't tell my mother," he said as he exhaled, a twinkle in his eyes.

He suddenly grew serious.

"Tell me, Inspector Abberline, what do you know of the Men of Letters."

**Whitechapel**

**Near the Alma Pub**

Drake looked at his watch; they had been looking for that bloody American for almost two hours. He took out a cigarette.

"Hobbs."

The young man turned around. He offered him the cigarettes.

"Want one?"

The constable shook his head. _Strange lad_, thought Drake. He took one himself and lit it with a match. He took a long drag. It didn't calm him down. Where was that bloody man!

He watched as Hobbs turn the corner into a dark alley lined with doss houses, the four penny coffins as the people of Whitechapel called them. He doubted Jackson had ended up in one of those; he much preferred whorehouses. Unlucky for them, however, they hadn't found him in any of his usual spots. He took another drag and looked up at the sky. It was going to rain soon and he didn't relish the idea of looking for that idiot in a downpour.

"Sergeant! Sergeant!"

Hobbs came running back, a smile on his face.

"I found him, Sir!"

Drake smiled. That man was like a puppy. He prayed that the job wouldn't destroy him but he knew it eventually would. He took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it under his boot before walking to meet up the constable. When he turned the corner, he covered his mouth and nose to protect himself from the overpowering stench of raw sewage, refuse, and human filth. Although he didn't look forward to freezing for months at the precinct, he still would welcome the colder months; winter had a way of masking the stench. As his eyes got used to the dim street, he noticed a few children huddled by the entrance of a hovel, their curious eyes observing them at a safe distance. Hobbs crouched near stairs leading to an area, gently trying to raise a sleeping Jackson from his stupor. Drake squatted next to the PC.

"I saw the children poking at him with sticks," he explained.

Drake looked at Jackson. The man's hat partially covered his face, there was sick in his beard and on the front of his shirt. His cutaway jacket was missing a button. If he had had a watch, it was long gone. Even by slum standards, he reeked.

"Mr. Jackson. Wake up, Mr. Jackson," said Hobbs as he shook the man by the shoulder.

Drake let out a dry laugh.

"That won't do, lad," he said.

The sergeant got up and faced the children.

"Hey, you!"

Some of the younger children scampered.

"I have a haypenny for the first of you who brings me a bucket of water."

A sloshing bucket was soon provided by a brown-eyed street urchin so dirty it was hard to tell his race. As promised, Drake handed the coin. The boy lingered, now curious to see the show. Drake winked at him and poured the water straight on Jackson's face. The American gasped loudly and flailed. The sergeant kicked him softly in the ribs. The man bent forward and groaned.

"Goddammit, Drake!," he coughed. " How many times will I have to tell you not to do this."

Hobbs looked on from a few paces away, a look of horror mixed with guilty amusement on his face.

"Dunno," said Drake, with a smirk. He held out his hand to help Jackson get up. "Maybe I'll learn not to do it when you learn not to pass out in the streets like a tramp."

The American grabbed the older man's forearm and got up to his feet. He winced and brought his hand to his temple. He leaned on the wall, almost stepping in the stairwell. Drake pulled him forward at the last minute.

"Mr. Reid needs you. So you have about 15 to get it together."

Jackson groaned.

"He's not my boss," the man complained.

"No, but the money he gives you pays for all that disgusting whisky and those whores you like so much, so come on."

He grabbed the surgeon by the back of his collar and turned to Hobbs.

"Dispatch a runner to H precinct with a message for Mr. Reid. I need to clean this animal up before he does anything."


End file.
